Fire & Ice
by Ace of Hearts
Summary: FINAL CHAPTER UPLOADED: It's the chap. we've all been waiting for: Lita and RVD get set to be "married" on Raw, complete w/ Jeff Hardy as the clueless best man and Trish Stratus as the maid of honor!
1. Love Bites

Lita glanced impatiently at her watch for the third time in the past five minutes, and let out an impatient sigh. Irritably noting that Matt was late--yet _again_--she crossed and uncrossed her legs, before slouching down on the leather seat and hoping that nobody would recognize her. After a few more minutes of fidgeting and waiting, the sultry redhead grew irate, and decided that she had better things to do than sit around by herself at an intimate little seafood restaurant and get stood up by her supposed boyfriend. Her on-again, off-again relationship with Matt Hardy had taken a turn for the worse lately, and Lita was sick and tired of trying unsuccessfully to make things work.   
"This is the last straw," she muttered to herself, gathering up her purse and preparing to leave the table. If she wasn't so utterly furious at Matt, she'd feel sorry for him for the abuse he was going to take soon enough. The two had been going out for what felt like forever, but these days it seemed as though their relationship was simply disappearing down the drain, and Matt was too busy partying with the boys after _Smackdown! _to spend any time with his girlfriend. The same girlfriend who'd taken time out of her rehab to faithfully--and, Lita now realized, stupidly--travel on the road with him. _Well, to hell with the bastard!_ she swore silently to herself, shouldering on her coat and angrily running a hand through her flaming hair. _Let _him_ get stood up for a change!_ Her angry thoughts were cut off when she recognized a familiar dark-haired figure hastily stumble into the restaurant, looking somewhat dazed and out of place. Lita's upper lip twisted up in a grim smile as Matt recognized her--or rather, her trademark red hair--and made a beeline across the room toward her. Plastering a phony smile on her face so as to not scare him away, she crossed her arms and prepared for World War III. 

* * *

_Ugh, so _this_ is what seafood restaurants try to pass off as seared ahi tuna, _Rob Van Dam thought to himself as he glared down distastefully at his plate. Seated across from him, a pretty blonde in a stylish red minidress was chattering a mile a minute, a smile on her face fit for a toothpaste commercial as she talked excitedly, barely touching her shrimp salad. _Just smile and nod,_ RVD instructed himself, following his own orders and pretending to be fascinated by whatever the hell his date was squealing over. _Good grief has she got the whole Pamela Anderson thing going for her, right down to the peroxide and bleach formula!_ he winced, smiling and nodding along to her words while his restless eyes scanned the restaurant. _Hey, I recognize that chick over there,_ he muttered silently to himself, catching sight of a tall redhead dressed to kill in a black dress and gladiator-style stilettos. He narrowed his eyes, struggling to remember who she was. _Hmm...I know we work together, although she just mysteriously disappeared a few months back. Can't seem to remember her name, though..._His attention was shifted to something more important, as he glanced away from the redhead whom he worked with and whose name he couldn't remember if his life depended on it, and began instead to examine his reflection on the silverware. _Oh, great, my hair's out of place,_ he inwardly complained, reaching up and patting down his tousled chestnut mane while his date kept on yakking. _Smile and nod, smile and nod,_ he repeated silently to himself, pretending to be interested by whatever she was saying as he continued to scrutinize his appearance using his butter knife. 

* * *

Matt Hardy moved swiftly over to Lita, briefly kissing her cheek in greeting and then taking his seat at their table, opening up a menu as though nothing had happened. Lita's left eyebrow was twitching dangerously by then, as Matt examined the choices, murmuring absently, "Hey, Li, can you recommend anything?" Lita glared, before seething through clenched teeth, "Yes--their ice water is very refreshing!" before taking her full glass and dumping its entire contents, ice and all, into Matt's face. Her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend leapt up, shock registering on his features as he clawed at his drenched black hair and sputtered indignantly, "What the hell was that for?!" He quickly realized that questioning her action was the wrong thing to do, as Lita glared murderous daggers at him, before snapping, _"That_ was for making me wait one and a half hours for you after _Smackdown!"_ Matt still looked confused, and Lita scowled.   
"Ugh, don't tell me that those strippers' low IQs rubbed off on you, Mr. I Scored 1330 On My SATs!" she growled sarcastically, and Matt's eyebrows flew up.   
"Is that what this is all about?" he stammered. "You thought I was at a strip club?"   
"Oh, gee, I don't know," Lita said in that maddening tone of hers. "Maybe it's about the fact that I have been sitting here like a fool for nearly two hours, while you were out with your buddies getting lap dances from scantily-clad bimbos at some tacky bar with garish neon lights and drunken losers screeching "Girls Girls Girls" by the karaoke machine!" Matt leaned back, as though her arsenal of scathing words had acted as a physical barrage against him. He opened and closed his mouth, but no words could come out, and he wound up looking as though he'd meant to do a fish out of water imitation. At his reaction, Lita let out a groan of disgust, snapping, "The least you could do was make a pathetic attempt at denying this!" Matt finally seemed to snap out of his daze, as a stream of words flew out of his mouth.   
"But I didn't go to a strip club with the guys or whatever it is that you're thinking!" he defended himself. "I mean, I'm really sorry I showed up late and all, honest, I had no idea, you tend to lose track of time when you're at the arena, and..." Lita held up her hands to stop him before he could talk himself blue and collapse unconscious from lack of oxygen.   
"Listen, Matt, just save it, all right?" she muttered, in a slightly less angry tone. "I'm too tired of all this to argue with you; just go do whatever the hell you want, but don't lead me into believing that you're going to set some time aside for us. Let's just forget about this and move on with our lives." Matt's eyes widened, as he got what his girlfriend--his former girlfriend--was getting at.   
"You mean, we should take a break from each other?" he ventured quietly, but one glance into Lita's eyes told him that it was already too late for even that.   
"No, Matt," she murmured. "Look, I don't want to end this on a bitter term--so let's just calmly break up, and try to at least stay on speaking terms, all right?" Matt didn't bother to respond, and after a few seconds, Lita cleared her throat and began to walk away from their table. 

* * *

"So, I was, like, 'No, way!' and she was like, 'Totally!' and I couldn't believe it, because I could have sworn that they hated each others' guts, and honestly, what does she see in him, anyway? I mean, he's, like, a hundred years old, and wrinkled as a prune, and, like, totally icksome, you know--" RVD winced as his date happily chattered on, deciding that if he didn't take a break from her voice, his head would pop. Forcing another smile on his face, he spoke up, "Listen, Torrie, I have to go and make a phone call, all right? Be back in a sec." He started to rise and get out of his chair, but froze when he noticed that his blonde date had suddenly fallen deathly silent to lean back in her chair, cross her arms over her chest, and work her features into a murderous scowl. Feeling somewhat uneasy, RVD paused in mid-movement to prod, "Something wrong, Torrie?" She glared up at him, snapping in a clipped tone, _"Yes,_ something's wrong, Robby!" RVD frowned, he hated it when people called him that; however, he could see that now wasn't the time to sulk over being called by his Nana's nickname for him.   
"Yes, well, I know how badly bleach can damage your hair and all, that's why you should use a special kind of papaya extract on it like I do with mine, Torrie," he started to advise, when he suddenly realized the problem. "But you're not Torrie, are you?" His date shook her head.   
"No, I'm not," she seethed. RVD smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand, as he said casually, "Of course not! Sorry, Trish, I'm terrible with names, and you know how I tend to confuse names that are similar..." His date's eyebrows flew up in outrage, and RVD realized then that she probably wasn't Trish either.   
"Oh, I see, so you're not Trish. Okay, I _know_ you're not Debra, because I would never go out with a married woman, so...Who the hell are you, then?" he made the mistake of saying, as his furious date looked like she wanted to pull a Stephanie and bitch slap him right back to his hotel room and his precious papaya extract. Thankfully, however, she changed her mind before actually carrying out her slap, and instead opted to pout sulkily, "Stacy, remember?! I'm Stacy!" RVD responded with a confused look.   
"Right, Stacy...Listen, I don't mean to be rude or anything, but didn't you get fired way back for adopting what I believe is called "Sable Attitude?" he wanted to know, as Stacy's mouth dropped open in outrage.   
"Stacy _Keibler,_ not Stacey Carter!" she hissed furiously, and RVD gave a nervous, guilty chuckle when he realized his mistake.   
"Of course, of course, you're the Testicle chick, now I remember!" he said, more to himself than to Stacy, who scowled and crossed her legs.   
"I've heard of people who're bad with names, but this is ridiculous," she grumbled. "I'm surprised you can even remember your own name--_Can_ you remember your own name?" RVD shot her a _What-Are-You-Kidding?_ look, as he chanted cheerfully, complete with thumb pointing and all, "Of course I remember my own name, Lilian, I mean, Kat, I mean, Stace. I'm Rob...Van...Dam!" As Stacy rolled her eyes heavenward, RVD drew himself to his full height and squirmed out of the table, chirping brightly, "Now if you'll excuse me, um, Stacy, I have to go and make that phone call!" And he cheerfully sailed away before Stacy could utter a single word of protest. 

* * *

Lita trudged dejectedly through the restaurant, heading for the glass doors and convincing herself that she'd done the right thing by breaking up with Matt. _It wouldn't have worked out in the end, and you know it,_ she tried to convince herself. But still, she'd been with Matt Hardy for so man years--she'd honestly thought they might get married one day. Lita broke into a bitter smile. _It just goes to show that serious, long-term relationships are never what they're cracked up to be,_ she thought to herself. She would have continued her train of thought, had she not smacked full force into someone then. Normally, Lita would have offered a polite apology, but after just ending a long-term relationship, she'd convinced herself she had every right to be as nasty and sarcastic as she wanted.   
"Ugh, watch where the hell you're going, clumsy," she growled under her breath, as she pushed past him and continued walking. The man she'd bumped into shot her a wide-eyed stare, before muttering, "Hn, guess what they say about redheads is true, then." Lita turned around to glare at him, but before she could say anything, his eyes had lit up in recognition, and he'd greeted cheerfully, "Hey, I work with you, huh?" Lita recognized him as being the self-proclaimed Mr. Monday Night himself, Rob Van Dam, and offered a weak smile.   
"Yeah. Sorry for what I said, Rob," she muttered, and prepared to head outside and hail a taxi.   
"Yeah, no problem." RVD then made the mistake of adding, "By the way, Victoria, since when did you dye your hair red?" Lita whirled around in surprise, too shocked to really offer any furious words.   
"I'm not Victoria," she finally said slowly, as a look of anguish came over RVD's face.   
"Oh, great--Stacy, don't tell me you went into the bathroom to dye your hair just now!" he complained. Lita shook her head in disbelief; she didn't know whether he was only kidding or whether he was actually serious, although had she been in a better mood, she would have surely been amused by his antics.   
"I'm Lita," was all she said, as a lightbulb seemed to go off in RVD's brain.   
"That's right! That's what your name is," he crowed, as Lita rolled her eyes. _I really don't have time for his crap,_ she thought to herself. Out loud, she muttered, "Listen, I've got to get going," before pushing past him and storming the hell out of the place. RVD shrugged, then forgot all about Lita when he heard Stacy complaining to the waiter that a cherry tomato in her shrimp salad had gone bad, and remembered the purpose of his initial excuse of getting away from Stacy and her voice.   
"Well then--I'm off to make that phone call of mine," he muttered to himself, and began trying to remember Kurt Angle's hotel room number so that he could send twenty pizzas over. 


	2. Ain't Talking About Love

*All right, don't laugh, but since this fic is supposed to be a romantic comedy and all, I decided to name all the chapters after love songs. And then I figured I couldn't find enough songs that were strictly "love ballads" that would suit the outline of all the chapters, so I had to really look and use songs that can be even remotely considered love songs. So, um, yeah. Just in case you were wondering where all the weird titles came from. -_- 

* * *

**Lita**

* * *

There are two weaknesses to me that I would trade anything in the world to get rid of. Well...actually, not just two weakness; in fact I've got more weakness than I'd like to be reminded of. But out of all of those, there are two in particular that I can't resist, and of those two, the one that I'd like to be cured of the most is dating other wrestlers. I should honestly know better; these relationships never work out, but there's just something about a tanned and cut athlete sporting a mane of long hair that you just want to reach over and run your fingers through that I really should but simply can't resist. Well, after one Matthew Moore Hardy, I've more than learned my lesson: WWE couples are trouble. Period. Look at what happened between Randy Savage and Miss Elizabeth. Broke up. Gregory Helms and Molly Holly. Broke up. David Flair and Stacy Keibler. Again, broke up (but not before undergoing that horrendously embarrassing pregnancy angle in the old WCW!). Matt Hardy and yours truly. Most definitely broken up! And yet look at all the non-wrestling couples: The Rock and his wife--happily married with a newborn daughter. Kurt Angle and his wife--also happily married and expecting a newborn daughter. Undertaker and Sara--again, married and expecting a baby. Are you beginning to see a pattern here? Now that I think about it, this probably makes me the most pathetic person in the world, needing two or three years to understand a simple WWE dating concept that most people seem to have gotten in less than five minutes. But I've learned my lesson now. No more dating a fellow Superstar, no matter how gorgeous or charismatic he is. 

I start the engine of my rental car and crank up the radio volume, flipping impatiently through the stations until I arrive at a channel that's actually not spewing out commercials for a change. Some corny love ballad is playing, a cheesy male voice crooning about how he will always be my hero, and I recognize it as being that one guy with the giant mole beside his nose--Enrique What'sHisFace. I scrunch up my nose, as I remember Stacy telling me something about how he's gone ahead and had his mole surgically removed. I let out a groan of disgust as Enrique--mole or no mole--continues crooning about being my hero--and reach forward to switch off the radio.   
"Sugar, if _you_ were my hero, then I'd be in deep shit," I mutter scornfully under my breath, before keeping one hand on the steering wheel and using my free one to dig through my CD collection. Let's see...Pearl Jam--nah, too depressing, something that I do _not_ need right now, and besides, I can't understand half the words Eddie Vedder's singing to begin with, anyway. Red Hot Chili Peppers--maybe, I think I'll use that for backup if I can't find any Tommy Lee or Megadeth. Goo Goo Dolls--like hell, I didn't turn off one love ballad just to put on another one! Guns N' Roses--heh, no; I'm really not in the mood for getting fined by the rental company for shattering all the windows on one of their cars with Axl Rose's banshee scream. Motörhead--oops, gotta remember to give that back to Triple H one of these days. AC/DC--see Guns N' Roses. Nirvana--see Pearl Jam...Okay, I must've blown several hundred dollars on CD's, and yet I can't seem to find one lousy album to suit my just-broke-up-with-longtime-boyfriend mood! Ugh, that's what I get for buying the albums of rock bands all fronted by men...Wait a minute, what's this? Lynyrd Skynyrd?! Now how the hell did that get in here; God knows I've got better things to do than listen to seventies' Southern rockabilly about Alabama and the greatness of the Confederate flag! I finally stop doing a Rock imitation when I realize that this must be from Matt's extensive collection, and let out a low laugh. Switching hands on the steering wheel, I lean over to roll down the window, before promptly hurling the Skynyrd record straight out of the car and letting it fly over the highway. It cracks pitifully on the road, no doubt to be run over by hundreds of cars. Hey...No Doubt! I bend down to closely examine my CD collection, tossing aside some Creed and U2 and ignoring the honking of passing cars as my grip on the steering wheel loosens in my concentration.   
"C'mon, where is it...where is it..." I mutter to myself, rifling through Skid Row and Van Halen before finally coming across the album that I want. Opening the CD case, I slide No Doubt's 1995 _Tragic Kingdom_ into the car's stereo system, cranking up the volume as the first track starts blaring over the speakers.   
"Nothing like a good, angry, girl-power break-up album after Matt," I mutter to myself as I continue driving and singing along to "Spiderwebs" at the top of my lungs, not caring that I'm starting to sound dangerously close like Stephanie screeching out the lyrics to "Wind Beneath Our Ring." Hey--at least _I_ don't have to worry about getting sprayed with milk by a crazed Kurt Angle, now do I? 

* * *

I arrive at the arena where _Raw_ is to be held tonight over an hour early. Good. That's how I like it; this way I can squeeze in a light workout routine, take a hot shower, and casually socialize with the other Superstars at the catering room before the show is about to go live on the air. Since I've got nothing to do aside from commentating on _Sunday Night Heat,_ and since my rehab is progressing faster than as was expected, I'm allowed to travel around with the crew--at least for most _Raws_ and PPVs. And, of course, before that, foolishly hop on the road with Matt for the _Smackdown!_ tours. _Take it easy, Li,_ I silently order myself. _Stop thinking about Matt; it's over now, and there's no need to remain bitter over a relatively amiable break up._ I reach forward and stop _Tragic Kingdom_ halfway through "Don't Speak"--good thing, too, because the whiny mopey sadness of the break up ballad was beginning to get on my nerves and make me wish I'd swiped that Alanis Morrisette CD from Ivory's car. I reach into a compartment to grab an electric pink scrunchie, which I use to pull my hair back into a messy ponytail before getting out of my car...only to be nearly run over by a silver Trans Am. I let out a little shriek, diving back into the leather safety of my own rental car, as a male voice laughingly calls back a casual "Sorry!" in one of those California surfer dude type voices. Resisting the urge to pull a Stone Cold and flip the disappearing car the double bird, I concentrate instead on getting my heartbeat back to normal, before glancing out cautiously around me to make sure there aren't any more incoming cars. When I'm satisfied that nobody else is nearby trying to pitifully relive his adolescence as a 'Vette-driving frat boy rock n' rolling all night and partying every day, I get out of my car and walk over to retrieve my luggage from the trunk, before slamming it shut and heading into the arena. 

I pass by some members of the crew, setting up the ring and the barricades, and smile and nod hello, exchanging some pleasantries with the ones I know particularly well. Heading over to the women's locker room, I sling my duffel bag off my shoulder and place it down into a corner. Molly and Victoria are the only ones there, and we exchange greetings, including some sympathies from the two for my break up with Matt. I can offer only a weak smile and quietly accept their kind words, before mumbling a lame excuse and heading out of the locker room. I don't know why I get so touchy about this subject--I guess deep down, I'm not really over Matt just yet, and am still trying to get used to being alone again. _Stop it, Lita, _I tell myself. _This was what you wanted--you were the one who chose to break things off._ And I was right. Chickening out and crawling back to Matt was definitely _not_ making progress and taking a break from all men, not to mention a utterly humiliating and hypocritical thing to do. Bleh, I hate it when I'm right. 

Passing by the catering table, I notice the back of a familiar muscular figure sporting a dark blonde ponytail. Remembering the Motörhead incident back in the car, I reach into the pocket of my jacket and dig around until I find the CD I'd borrowed from Triple H three months earlier, and had flat out forgotten to return. In fact, I'd flat out forgotten all about it, period, until earlier that day. Walking up to him, I tap him on the shoulder and speak up.   
"Hey, Hunter, I've got your Motörhead album right here," I tell him. I add with a guilty laugh, "Sorry it took me so long to return; I guess it slipped my mind, and--" At that moment, he breaks away from his conversation with Jericho and Christian and turns around, and I realize that the man I am speaking to is most definitely not Hunter.   
"Oh, hey there, um...Lita, right?" Rob Van Dam speaks up lazily, casually setting down his Styrofoam cup of coffee on the nearest table. Hn, I'd been wondering why Hunter suddenly seemed to have shrunken a couple of inches in height.   
"Hi, Rob," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed for mistaking him for Hunter. "Um, listen, sorry for bothering you, I guess I thought you were Triple H...You don't happen to know where he is, do you?" RVD shrugs, motioning that he has no clue. Not that I'd really expected him to, anyway.   
"Well...I guess I'd better look for him, then, I've got to return his CD," I finally mumble after a short stretch of silence, and turn around to leave. RVD reaches forward and grabs my hand, pulling me back while saying, "Wait, hold on--I have to tell you something." Without really knowing why, I begin to blush as I turn around to face him. _Stop it, Lita,_ I silently scold myself, as Van Dam starts speaking.   
"Listen, about that incident in the parking lot--sorry for nearly running you over," RVD begins guiltily, scuffing his shoe against the linoleum floor as he talks. My eyebrow nearly flies off my forehead, ending up in a People's Eyebrow that the Rock would have been both proud and envious of, as I shriek in a keening, abrasive shrill that Stephanie would have been both proud and envious of, "What?!" (And, just in case you're curious, that "What?!" was uttered in a manner that Austin would have been both proud and envious of!) RVD begins to look uncomfortable, as he apologizes while jerking in the direction of Jericho and Christian, "I'm sorry, you see Dumb and Dumber over there were mock-fighting in the backseat, and I couldn't really see where I was going, especially with Stacy shrieking something into my ear...You're not hurt, are you?"   
"Oh, gee, I don't know--do I _look_ as though I just came back from the ER?!" I growl sarcastically, and RVD looks taken aback. I begin to feel guilty at the genuine concern that had occupied his voice when inquiring about my health, and hear myself saying, "Listen, I'm sorry for snapping at you, Rob, I guess I'm just in a bad mood today." RVD nods silently, and I add, "Here, why don't we just forgive and forget, all right?"   
"Sure, I'm cool with that," he chirps brightly. "After all, I'm--" I cut him off as I finish for him, complete with one half of the thumb pointing and all, "I know, I know, because you're Rob...Van...Dam, I get it." RVD looks at me with a confused expression on his face.   
"Actually, I was going to say that I'm a helluva lot more forgiving than the likes of Taker or Nash," he mumbles slowly, and I feel my cheeks begin to grow warm at the realization of my mistake.   
"Oh. Well, okay," I mumble slowly, and at that moment RVD chooses to drop the bomb, as he adds brightly with a rather goofy grin, "Besides, if we're going to be working so closely together for the next several months, then we can't afford to be feuding with each other behind the scenes." I am still recovering from the shock of discovering that RVD is the "blonde, brainless California surfer dude trying to pitifully relive his youth by zipping around in a 'Vette in an effort to rock n' roll all night and party every day" who'd nearly run me over, and would have fallen right on my ass had I not grabbed on to the nearest object--which just happened to be Rob's arm--and held on for dear life. RVD gives me a funny look, before opening his mouth to say something--probably inquire after my health--but I blot out the sound of his voice and instead concentrate on regaining my composure. After I finally do, I realize that I'd been holding on to his hand like it was some sort of lifesaver, and quickly let it go, hoping I am not blushing too badly.   
"What...what do you mean you and I are going to be working closely together?" I finally manage to say. Great, so now I've developed a damn stutter on top of all things! RVD shrugs, like the whole world knows about it by now.   
"Didn't you hear?" he asks me. "There's been talk thrown around backstage that once you return to _Raw,_ we'll be paired up with you as my valet for a while, and last week the creative team finally decided to go ahead with the storyline."   
"Huh...they did?" I don't know what else to say--not that I need to have worried about that, since RVD seems perfectly happy to chatter away enough for the both of us.   
"Yeah, apparently, the bookers are pretty impressed with the fan response you've been getting from _Sunday Night Heat,_ and are thinking of bringing you back early--just to accompany me down the ring for a couple of _Raws,_ of course," he explains. Arching an eyebrow at my unresponsiveness, he ventures, "So...what do you think?" I finally break my silence by muttering, "Honestly? I think I need to go back to the women's locker room and lie down." RVD shrugs.   
"Okay--just make sure to knock and wait before you enter," he advises. "Remember, Nicole Bass doesn't need any more incentive to launch another sexual harassment lawsuit against the WWE." Despite myself, I can't help but laugh at his--well, if it was a joke, then it was pretty cute, and if he was actually being serious, than it was all the more adorable. 

* * *

The insistent sound of someone pounding against my hotel room door awakens me, and I yawn and roll over to glance at the digital clock lying on my nightstand. One-fifteen...! Jeez, who the hell could be visiting at this time of the night? On the bed beside mine, Trish buries her head into her pillow and mumbles something.   
"What?" I ask her. Her pillow is muffling her voice, and whatever it is that she'd said has come out like sounding, "Ymph feff mmh duff thzz tmph." Trish reluctantly raises her head a few inches from her pillow to yawn and lazily mutter, "You get the door this time." I let out a groan, and lie back down on my bed.   
"Why me?" I grumble, to which Trish simply replies, "Because I got it the last time, remember?" I groan and cover my ears with my pillow; unfortunately, whoever's on the other side of the door's apparently very persistent, because the knocking will just not go away. Finally, after I can stand the racket no longer, I let out an irritable growl and reluctantly crawl out of bed, reaching over to pull on a red bathrobe. I yawn, before yelling frostily, "All right, all right, I'm coming!" Trish speaks up from her bed, "Think it's another room service boy trying to get a peek of the WWE divas in their pj's?" I giggle, before mockingly threatening, "If it is, then he's going to get his teeth shoved down his throat for waking us up in the dead of the night!" Trish yawns, before rolling over in her bed.   
"That's the spirit, Lita," she murmurs sleepily, as I grin and head on over to the door. Flinging it wide open, I grouchily bark out, "What?!" but my irritation quickly turns to surprise as I recognize the person who's been knocking on the door.   
"Rob?" I gasp his name. 


	3. You Shook Me All Night Long

**RVD**

* * *

Don't you just love roommates? I mean, everyone can recall memories of that one guy in college who would crank gangster rap top volume in the middle of the night, when you're trying to either sleep, cram for the next day's French exam, or unsuccessfully attempting to do both of them at the same time, though not in that particular order. Oh, the rooms have gotten better now that I'm out of the twenty-five-bucks-a-night indies and with the WWE; at least here you don't have to flick roaches out of your dingy mattress before going to bed, and room service's always open specially for the wrestlers at all hours of the night. But the roommates, unfortunately, have most definitely _not_ gotten better. Take Chris Jericho, for example. Now, no offense against the guy, but he seems to think he's the next Mick Jagger. Which shouldn't prove to be a problem, after all; I mean, what good is life if you can't dream? Of course, Jericho doesn't just _dream_ of becoming a rock star, he's damn outright preparing to be the next Jim Morrison or David Lee Roth, and unfortunately, part of his preparation ritual is to try to stretch his vocal chords to match the highest octave Axl frickin' Rose can hit! It's bad enough when you're trying to talk to a loved one on the phone, and he or she keeps inquiring whether all those horrible screeching noises are due to the fact that you're butchering a small cow in your damn room; what's even worse is when you've just finished one hell of a, well, Hell in a Cell and are trying to get some well-deserved rest, but your roommate's too busy preening and striking rock star poses and singing into his shampoo bottle and pretending to be the next Jon Bon Jovi! 

I roll over in my bed and irritably mutter some very unflattering things about Axl Jericho under my breath. At least he's not pretending his hairbrush is a microphone at this moment, so I can rest assured that I've got a few hours before the Robert Plant imitations begin. I yawn and close my eyes, and begin counting sheep in an effort to go to sleep. 

*SNORE* 

I instantly shoot out of bed, upsetting the blanket I'd thrown across my body as I glare into the darkness. My roommates for the night are Lance Storm and, of course, Jericho Lee Roth. Irritably, I get out of my bed and stalk over to Jericho's, before rolling him over onto his side in an effort to stop his snoring. Yawning, I begin to head back to my own bed...but then, the dry, booming sound echoes again. 

*SNORE* 

I don't know whether to slap my own forehead in frustration, or go over to Jericho and slap him to take out some of that frustration. Finally, I decide that a. I don't want to hurt myself and b. Jericho's all too happy for a chance to start showing off his whatever-octave vocal range, and I most certainly don't want to give him the excuse to start screeching in that keening, abrasive shrill that would make even Stephanie McMahon cringe. Padding over back to Jericho's bed, I grumpily roll him over to his side, a bit more roughly this time, before starting to head back to my own bed. I snuggle underneath the covers, pulling the blanket all the way up my neck while punching all the lumps out of my pillow, and close my eyes. 

*SNORE* 

I stir slightly, but force myself to ignore the sound, even as it grates my ears for the thousandth time in one lousy night. _Stay cool,_ I instruct myself. _After all, you're R...V...D._

*SNORE* 

Ugh. But sometimes, even RVD needs the aid of certain odds and ends--it's like Batman and that hardware store he carries in that utility belt he wears over those Speedos of his. I dive under the pillow and pull it tightly over my ears, trying to shut out the noise. 

*SNORE* 

All right, that's it! I can't stand the sound anymore. But I'm also too lazy to get out of bed to roll Jerky over onto his side for the third time in less than fifteen minutes. Turning over to face the third bed in the room, I call over to the only short-haired wrestler bunking with yours truly and the human banshee, "Hey, Storm, do something about Jericho!" Naturally, I get no response from him--the dude can sleep right through a hurricane...or a storm. Okay, I know that was a bad pun, but give me a break, I'm a lousy thinker at one o' clock in the morning! Besides, who isn't? I grope around my nighstand, searching for any projectile I might be able to hurl in Storm's direction. My hands close around the stuffed dragon some crazy chick had shoved into my face back in the parking lot, and I promptly use it to smack him squarely in the jaw. Storm's eyes fly halfway open as he growls something really not fit for children under eighteen to ever hear, but before he can start lecturing me about the marvels of what a good night's rest can do to one's body, I interrupt him to whine, "Dude, Jericho's snoring again, do something, will ya?" Storm mumbles lazily under his breath, "Why me?" I let out an annoyed huff, as I inform him, "Because I just made two trips in ten minutes to roll him onto his side, now it's your turn!" 

*SNORE* 

I give an exasperated sigh.   
"You see? That's what I'm talking about!" I hiss. Storm mutters something into his pillow. It sounds like, "Blah blah blah, mmph!" Great, if the dude's going to ignore me to warble nonsense, the least he can do is do it to my face!   
"Come _on,_ Storm, do something! Jericho sounds like a human boom box!" I prod, deciding to drop the whole ignoring me crap. Storm rolls over, and yawns.   
"Too tired," he murmurs, and closes his eyes. I look around for something else to throw at him, but I've run out of stuffed animals, and am not willing to give up my nice, comfy pillow. As I sit there trying to think, meanwhile, another snore tears through the room. 

*SNORE* 

I shoot one last desperate look at Lance Storm, but he's already asleep, a blissful smile on his face and his blanket pull up snugly over his chest.   
"Oh, all right, already!" I throw up my hands in exasperation and grumpily get out of bed to head over to Jericho once again. Tripping over the various items that are cluttering the floor (including Jericho's hairspray and Storm's many books), I reach Boom Box Bon Jovi and jab him in the ribs.   
"Shut up!" I hiss. Jericho mumbles something (it sounds suspiciously like, "I am a rock god!"), sighs, and falls into silence. A goofy grin appears on my face, as I close my eyes and hold out my hands in a Titanic/King of the World pose. Ah, the blissful silence. 

*SNORE* 

My eyes fly open, as I snarl, "Oh, that is it!" before reaching toward the bed and turning Jericho over so hard, he promptly flies off the bed and lands with a thud onto the carpeted floor. And somehow, Mr. Rock God manages to sleep through it all. I shake my head. Good grief...At least he's quiet now. I begin to head back to my own bed, yawning and wondering how much sleep time I have until I have to catch tomorrow morning's plane. 

*SNORE* 

Okay, if this were a _Roadrunner_ cartoon, then I am sure by now my face would be red as a fire engine as steam shoots out of my ears and smoke out my nostrils!   
"Oh, that is it!" I hiss under my breath, as I storm over to Jericho's bed, yank his pillow right from underneath his huge blonde head, and stuff it over that boom box he calls a mouth.   
"Mmph-gahck!" A muffled shout erupts from ye mighty black hole as I smash the pillow against Jericho, and he promptly begins thrashing and kicking underneath me.   
"Come on, be quiet!" I plead, getting only in response a faint but still audible stream of curses from underneath the pillow. 

"What the hell is going on here?! It's one a.m., can't you see a brother needs his beauty sleep?!" The lights snap on in a blaze, and standing at the doorway are Booker T and Goldust. Briefly in the back of my mind, I wonder how these two suckas managed to find the key to the hotel room, and then realize that, despite Lance Storm's nagging, I'd probably left the door unlocked--as usual. Goldust, sans his makeup but still managing to look bizarre nonetheless (I wonder how he does that!), mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "And they call _me_ weird!" I reach up to pull my hair back into its usual ponytail, and quickly explain, "It's not what it looks like, honest!"   
"Uh..." Booker's gaze trails down to Jericho's suddenly limp figure, and I look over to the self-proclaimed rock god and realize that his movements have weakened since Booker and Goldust have burst into the room.   
"Oh, shit!" I quickly take the pillow away, and Jericho draws in a series of quick, croaking mouthfuls of air. While the angry blonde Canadian continues to hyperventilate away, Booker questions, "So, Rob...Van...Dam, what exactly _where_ you trying to do here?" I open my mouth, about to reply, but just then, we both find out that Canadians tend to recover from asphyxiation rather easily, as Jericho proceeds to holler at the top of his lungs.   
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Van Dam?! You nearly killed me!" he screeches. I wince and reach up to rub my busted eardrum, before grouchily snapping back, "Yeah, well you deserved it, you damn howler monkey!" I was promptly replied with a pillow to the face, as Jericho haughtily declares, "Do not mistake this gorgeous face for that of a friggin' monkey's, Van Dam!"   
"All right, cut it out you two suckas," Booker intervenes, trying to play peacemaker. "Kill yourselves if you must, but do it in the morning--_some_ of us are trying to get sleep, you know?!"   
"I'm telling you, I was provoked!" I declare. "Jericho was snoring so loudly, he sounded like an elephant stampede!" Jericho huffs, looking insulted.   
"I do _not_ snore!" he exclaims through clenched teeth. "I am far too pretty to do such a disgusting thing!"   
"Yes, well _somebody_ here's been snoring," I inform him hotly, "and so far, you're the only suspect, Mr. Banshee Rose!" 

*SNORE* 

A sudden silence settles into the room, just as Jericho and I are about to have an impromptu...well, Doom in a Room, I guess. All eyes have now turned to the third occupant, Lance Storm, who's sleeping peacefully on his bed.   
"Oh, will you look at here," I mutter nervously. "Guess what they say is true, it _is_ always the quiet ones." Jericho, meanwhile, is glaring at me like I'm the lowest form on the food chain.   
"I'm going to count to ten," he seethes in a deathly quiet voice, "and when I'm done, you would have gotten the hell off my bed, and I would have begun to kick some serious Yankee ass!" 

* * *

I impatiently raise my hand to knock on the hotel room door next to ours, while keeping my free hand fixed at my left cheek, which has now been permanently imprinted with Jericho's so very gorgeous handprint (well, if not permanently, then at least until the next morning). Boy, for a guy who's supposed to be such a macho rock n' roll star, Mr. King of the World certainly knows how to throw one mean bitch slap--must've rubbed off from Stephanie from their partnership way back when he was Undisputed Champion, I guess. I swear under my breath as I wait for the slowpokes on the other side of the door to answer; I'm pretty sure this is the room that Christian and Hurricane are sharing with Test, and Lord knows how slow they can be, but the time that's taking them to answer is bringing back rather unwelcome flashbacks of how long it used to take for Dawn Marie to get the door! And here I was thinking that one of the Hurricane's many hurri-powers was super-speed; guess I was dead wrong. I hear somebody holler grouchily from the other side of the door; huh, Christian's voice has certainly taken on a much more feminine tone to it overnight. 

Before I have time to ponder what exactly is wrong with Christian's voice, the hotel room door is slammed open, and a tall redhead who is most certainly _not_ Christian greets crossly, "What?!" I lean back in surprise; this isn't exactly the one that I was expecting. She looks surprised as well, as she hurriedly pushes her tangled hair out of her face and squeaks out, "Rob?" I manage to crack a guilty smile, as I greet, "Erm...hi, Lita. Look, I'm sorry, I thought this was Christian and Hurricane's hotel room." Lita darts me a wary look, what she's thinking I have no idea, but she finally opens her mouth again and informs me curtly, "That's down the hall. The only blonde Canadian you'll find here is Trish Stratus." Oops, guess I did it again--dude, how come I'm always mixing these things up? And great, now I'm standing here quoting Britney of all people!  
"Listen, I'm sorry for my mix-up, but Jericho's kicked me out of our room we're sharing for nearly smothering him by mistake, and I thought I might be able to bunk with the other guys, but--" I begin to apologize nervously. For the first time in the night--or very early morning, I guess--Lita smiles, as she drawls lazily, "Here, rather than walking all the way down the hall, why don't you just spend the night with us?" My eyebrows nearly fly off my forehead.   
"You sure?" I hear myself asking. Lita smiles again.   
"Why? Can't you be trusted to keep your hands to yourself in a room with two gorgeous ladies?" she teases, playfully punching me in the arm.   
"Of course I can!" I inform her, as Lita opens the door wider and motions for me to get in.   
"Here, just to let you know, Trish always sets her alarm clock to some radio station, so you'll have to get used to waking up to Nickelback singing about the evils of divorce and long-term relationships," she warns me, and I shrug.   
"That's okay--believe me, it's a lot better than being treated to an early-morning Led Zeppelin tribute from Chris Jericho," I reply, as Trish mutters some protest from her bed concerning the whole divorce song crack.   
"Great," Lita says, as she heads over to Trish's bed and pulls her up. "Trish here will show you your sleeping arrangements." The blonde diva groans, but allows herself to be raised from her bed.   
"Why me?" she complains, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.   
"Because the deal was for us to each handle five minutes, and I've already completed mine for the night," Lita reminds her, gloating as she heads back to her own bed while Trish whines some more protest but concedes. Pulling on a bathrobe over her red-and-white striped pj's, she covers her mouth as she yawns and leads me over to where I would be spending the night.   
"Here you go, Rob," Trish mumbles. "Sorry there's no mints on the pillows--in fact, there aren't even any pillows. You want to go back and get yours from your own hotel room?" I shake my head.   
"Nah, they got shredded in half when Jericho used them to try to knock me out for nearly suffocating him," I admit. I then finally get a good look of where exactly I'm supposed to spend the night, and my eyebrows shoot up in indignation.   
"Wait--hold on a second!" I whirl around to protest, but Trish has already slammed the door shut--in my face, I might add--and is now heading back to her own bed. I shrug, and decide that at least it's better than being kept awake all night from Jericho's complaints and vocal exercises, and settle myself into my makeshift bed for the night, trying my best to make myself as comfortable as I can. 


	4. Love is a Battlefield

**Lita**

* * *

"It's not like you/To say sorry/I was waiting on a different story..."   
I groggily lift one eyelid and roll over, burying my face in my pillow as Trish's radio alarm clock continues to spew out Canadian rock.   
"Trish, turn down Freddy Kreuger before I knock the damn radio out the window," I groan, although I make no motion of ever intending to get up. Sprawled over on her own bed with her comforter twisted and tangled into knots all over her body, Trish yawns, not even bothering to lift her head off her pillow as she corrects me, "It's Chad Kroeger, Lita, and don't you dare smash my Hello Kitty memorabilia!" I mumble something under my breath, having given up on Trish ever intending to exert the energy that it would take to reach over, raise herself a few inches off her bed, and hit the Off button, so I instead dive under the covers and pull the pillow over my head.   
"Hey, I was wondering where my chocolate mint went," I say to myself, as I find the missing candy that the maids are always supposed to tuck onto your pillow. Taking one of my hands from the edge of my pillow to underneath it, I reach over and take the miniature sweet, unwrapping it and popping it into my mouth. The burst of rich chocolate and mint flavor hits my tongue, giving me enough of a sugar rush to pull my head out from under my pillow and prop myself into a sitting position. After stretching lazily and wincing at the rays of sunlight that suddenly invade my eyes, I step into my slippers and begin to pad on over to the bathroom to take my daily morning shower. 

"Hey, Lita--Wait!"   
I pause at this sudden exclamation from Trish, who's now sat up in bed and is wearing a thoughtful frown on her face, as though she's trying to remember something. With my right hand already on the knob of the bathroom door, I turn around with a questioning look on my face.   
"What is it?" I ask, as Trish absently brushes back her tousled blonde hair and tries to recall whatever it is that's so urgent it has to interrupt my morning shower.   
"I think..." Her voice trails off and she bites down on her lower lip as she struggles to remember through the haze of sleep. Finally she gives up and yawns, mumbling, "Never mind, go on ahead; I'll think of it sooner or later," as her head hits the pillow. I shrug, before opening the bathroom door. Once inside, I take off my sky blue bathrobe and hang it on the golden hook that's on the door. I pull my pastel pink nightgown up over my head and grab my white towel, then reach over and pull the shower curtain aside. 

* * *

**Trish**

* * *

I was just about to drift off into my nice dream about sailing away on a nice white yacht named after me with Johnny Rzeznik by my side (hey, I might be Canadian, but I sure as hell know a great-looking American rock star when I see one!), when I hear an ear-piercing scream coming from the direction of the hotel bathroom. I'm not sure, but I think that sounded like Lita--after having taken voice lessons from Stephanie, anyway.   
*Crash* *Slam* *Slap*   
"YOU PERVERT!"   
I wince, and inadvertently wink one eye shut. Okay, that was _definitely_ Lita, and I've really got to talk to Steph about those voice lessons. 

Before I can worry about Stephanie, Lita rushes out of the bathroom, wearing only a skimpy white towel which she's pulled tightly over her chest, her scarlet hair flying behind her. She screeches to a halt (pun very much intended!) in front of my bed, and boy, if looks could kill, then I'd have been buried five seconds ago! I have now sat bolt upright on my bed, and looking into Lita's furious brown eyes, I open my mouth to apologize, already needing no explanation as I realize what I'd forgotten to tell her before she'd gone into the bathroom to shower and change.   
"Lita--" I start to say, but the red-haired diva cuts me off.   
"What the _hell_ was RVD doing sleeping in the bathtub, Trish?" she hollers at me, and I can swear that my hair's been blown straight back from the force of her banshee shriek. I manage a guilty laugh, as I reach up to arrange my messy flax locks and try to explain.   
"Um, you see, the funniest thing happened..." My voice trails off, as I desperately wrack my brain for the best way to explain the situation that would ensure me the least bodily injury. 

Fortunately, however, RVD rushes out of the bathroom, sporting a black eye and, funnily enough, _two_ red slap marks (I'd only heard Lita slap him once), before Lita can move in and kill me. I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. Whew, saved by the bell...or, in this case, the wrestler in the Bugs Bunny pj's.   
"Lita, it's not what you think--" he tries to explain, but the furious diva whirls around and spits out venomously, "After I'm done with Trish, I'm going to kill _you,_ Van Dam!" Jeez, guess what they say about redheads really _is_ true, talk about a temper! Then again...if I'd just stripped down to nothing and stepped into the shower, only to find one of my male colleagues snoring away in the bathtub, I wouldn't really be in the best of moods, either. Keeping this in mind, I try to convince Lita that Rob and I didn't set her up for any naughty pranks, as I remind her, "Listen, Li, remember how RVD really needed a place to crash for the night because Jericho kicked him out last night?" Lita takes the time to tighten her towel around her, before grumpily blowing a strand of hair away from her eyes and muttering, "Yeah? So what?" I breathe a sigh of relief, so far so good--she's not eyeing any nearby sharp objects and calculating their damage capability...at least, not yet.   
"Well, I certainly couldn't invite him to bunk down in one of our beds, and since the floor was too cluttered with open suitcases and souvenirs, there was only one other place for him to go...the bathroom," I nervously explain, drawing my knees up to my chest in an effort to look as small and harmless as possible. As for Rob--well, he's the Whole Dam Show, Mr. Monday Night, and can ward off Lita's wrath without the need to look pitiful. I peek up at Lita from underneath my eyelashes, and see that she's softening.   
"You're not mad at me...are you?" I squeak out in a tiny voice. Lita heaves a sigh, looking like she's mad at herself for being unable to bring herself to kill the both of us.   
"All this time away from the ring's turning me into a spineless jellyfish," she complains, irritably running a hand through her hair before turning around and stalking back to the bathroom. I cringe when I hear the door slam shut, then give a sigh of relief and lazily yawn and stretch on my bed. RVD, meanwhile, is gawking at me like he can't believe my little performance as I flop back down into the warm comfort of my blankets and pillows.   
"You didn't happen to take any acting lessons in high school, did you?" he asks, only half kidding as he reaches up to absently rub his black eye (which, by the way, is now starting to turn a rather interesting shade of purple). I shrug and grin, playfully joking, "Hey, guys aren't the only ones who know how to use the puppy eyes!" 

* * *

**Lita**

* * *

I am soooo frickin' embarrassed! Beyond embarrassed! Humiliated! And if I can think of any other similes for the word 'embarrassed' then I sure as hell would use them! RVD had already left the hotel room by the time I was done showering and brushing my teeth--probably had had enough of women yelling at and slapping him for the day--and Trish has wisely scooted into the bathroom now that I'm done in order to avoid further provoking me. I shake my head as I towel off my still damp blow-dried hair, before deciding on a pair of stonewashed blue jeans and a black halter top. I quickly run a brush through my hair, and am about to pull it back into a ponytail when I notice the glint of car keys sitting on top of the dresser. I frown and bite down on my lip; that's odd--Trish and I always keep the keys to the rental car we share in one of our purses--and then figure out that it must be RVD's. I let out an amused chuckle, as I realize he must have taken his car keys to this room with him to ensure that Jericho can't just leave the hotel without him as retaliation for nearly suffocating him the previous night. As I absently pull my hair back into a ponytail, I wonder if I should just be nice and return his car keys to him, or whether I am still mad enough at RVD to just keep the keys and let Jericho (and the Mighty Chris Jericho Screech O' Doom) bitch him out for losing the keys to their rental car. After a few moments of debating, I decide that I'm just not cruel enough to do that to RVD--and besides, I'm pretty sure he really didn't mean to catch me in the showers like that, anyway. At least, for his own good, he better not have!   
"Lita, sometimes you're just too nice for your own good," I joke to myself, as I adjust my halter top and grab the car keys off the polished dresser surface. 

I head over to the room next to ours and gently rap on the doors, noting in amusement the fact that it's number is 420. Probably just a coincidence, unless RVD had noticed that and specifically requested this room just for kicks--he seems like the type of person who could and would easily laugh at himself. Before I can go off on a tangent and try to figure out his whole personality, the door is slammed wide open in a sudden movement, so fast and so forcefully that the edge nearly cracks me right on the nose. Behind the doorframe stands a rather bedraggled-looking Lance Storm--funny, you would think the guy would look more refreshed after a night's sleep; after all, he wasn't the one being bothered by obnoxious snoring or suffering a near-death experience. He manages a harried, half-hearted nod in greeting, as he asks, "Oh, hey, Lita. Can I help you?" I open my mouth and try to think of something to say, but first I reach over and pluck a long, white goose feather from his head. Storm glances up guiltily, and quickly bats away whatever feathers might still remain tangled in his hair. I arch one eyebrow questioningly, and Storm hastens to explain, "Jericho and Van Dam found out I was the one who was snoring...You really don't want to know the rest of the story." I shudder; I really _don't_ think I want to know.   
"Listen, I just came by to drop off your car keys...I'm assuming they're yours, since I'm pretty sure Rob left them in our room," I tell him. Storm distractedly reaches forward to take the keys back, mumbling, "Thanks, I appreciate it, especially since you delivered these just in time before Mr. Rock n' Roll had an excuse to turn the room upside down." I laugh in amusement; everybody knows how the male wrestlers kid around and play pranks on each other and just generally act like, well, goofy little boys, but I'd had no idea just how crazy they could get.   
"Here, before I go downstairs, you mind if I use your bathroom to wash my hands?" I request. "I think there was cinnamon gum stuck on that little toy guitar attached to your key chain, and somebody did a really crappy job of scraping it off." Storm winces, and agrees.   
"Sure, feel free," he says. Cocking his head, he listens, murmuring to himself, "Hn, nobody's butchering the lyrics to "Smokin' in the Boys' Room" at the top of his lungs, so I'm pretty sure it's free right now." I laugh again, guessing knowingly, "Jericho?" Storm lifts one eyebrow.   
"Who else?" he mutters dryly, as I head on over to the bathroom. 

The door is firmly shut; I close my hands around the knob and twist it open, stepping inside. Hmm...it's funny how hot and steamy it is in here--Jericho must've just finished taking his shower. The next thing that happens pretty much takes all thoughts of the blonde Canadian straight out of my mind, as none other than Rob Van Dam--the same man who accidentally got an eyeful earlier this morning--steps happily out of the showers, his hair all wet and his body glistening. My jaw must have dropped straight to the ground, and it isn't long before RVD takes notice of me. Thankfully, he's showing no intentions of getting as pissy about this situation as I did earlier this same morning, as rather than dealing a bitch slap he opts instead to casually reach over to grab a towel and tie it around his waist.   
"Oh, hey, Lita," he says cheerfully, sounding far too unfazed considering the fact that I'd just burst into his bathroom and caught him right at the moment when he'd stepped out of the showers.   
"I didn't know you were coming, otherwise I would have worn something," he adds; I don't know whether he's being serious or whether he's teasing me. My mouth is as dry as cotton, my cheeks feel like they're on fire from blushing so hard, as I open and close my mouth without uttering a single sound, save for a tiny little mouse-like squeak. I feel obliged to say _something, _however...   
"Um...uh...that is...Oh, shit!" And, right then and there in RVD's bathroom, I do the only thing I can think of at the moment: my eyes roll way back into my head, and I faint dead away. 


	5. Rock & Roll All Nite

**RVD**

* * *

_ ...I wanna rock n' roll all night/And party every day/I wanna rock n' roll..._   
Bleh! I _know_ there's something wrong with the date if I start tuning What'sHerFace out to replay old KISS songs in my head over and over. But give a guy a break--how much time can any living, breathing human being with functioning brain cells take of some chick yakking away about all the troubles she goes through to achieve the perfect tan, or how many hours it takes for her to evenly coif all her glorious hair? See my point? Now, where was I? Oh, yeah! _You keep on shouting/You keep on shouting..._   
"Rob!" I blink and nearly fall out of my chair, knowing with a start that there's no such line in KISS's "Rock & Roll All Nite" that goes, "You keep on shouting...Rob!" Only then do I realize that my date's finally caught on that I've pretty much blanked out throughout the course of the evening, as she whines, "You haven't been listening to me at all, have you?" I blink cluelessly, but quickly remember the phrase of how Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, even if that woman is a giggly airhead, and decide that it's time to play my trump card. Tossing back my own gorgeous hair (which does not need two hours in front of the mirror to achieve the perfect coif, I might add!), I flash my best smile, knowing how most women can't resist dimples. Her expression softens, giving me time to ponder why exactly do most women like dimples in a guy. I mean, is it supposed to be "adorable"? How adorable--adorable as in puppy dog, adorable as in the boy-next-door all grown up, adorable as in--   
"Rob! You've ditzed out on me again!" Oops, guess I've got to stop digressing. I force my utterly bored mind to concentrate on the date present, as I mumble out the first lame excuse that I can think of.   
"I'm sorry, Stacy, that match really took a lot out of me, and I'm afraid--" I start to babble mindlessly, when I notice to my dismay that my date's jaw has dropped open in outrage upon my calling her Stacy. D'oh, of course, Stacy's a brunette-turned-blonde, this chick's a plain brunette.   
"Oh, did I call you Stacy?" I let out a guilty laugh. "I'm sorry, I tend to mix names up...um, Ivory, right?" Is that smoke shooting out her ears? Oh, crap, I just realized something--double d'oh, cause Ivory's no bimbo! Which leaves...All right, what the hell am I doing with _Nidia, _of all people? I know she's a WWE diva and all, but she is a bit young for me--more like Jeff Hardy's type. But still, since this ain't Ivory...   
"I mean, not Ivory--of _course_ not Ivory--how could I forget that your name is Nidia?" I guess blindly, but What'sHerFace is _still_ not appeased, as the Nidia remark only serves to make her all the more furious. Oh-kay, if fire starts shooting out her eyes, I am _so_ out of here! Desperate, I take one last shot.   
"Listen, Molly, I am really sorry about this, but--" I start to ramble, as finally, my date decides to drop the games and explodes, "It's Dawn Marie, you jackass! Dawn Marie!"   
"I knew that!" I huff, trying to sound sure of myself. Dawn Marie rolls her eyes, and mutters something under her breath about how my cuteness better be worth my ditziness. Yeah, whatever. Finally, after a few more moments of stony silence, What'sHerFace--um, I mean, _Dawn Marie_--resumes chattering again.   
"So, you want to know how I keep my complexion perfectly smooth? Well, unlike Trish or Torrie, _I_ always make sure to..."   
_I wanna rock n' roll all night/And party every day/I wanna rock n' roll all night..._

* * *

Once I return to my hotel (this time I'm sharing a room with Hurricane and Christian, since Jericho won't come within screeching distance of me after that little suffocation incident), I decide to stop by the bar downstairs. Now, I'm usually not the drinking type, but after such a dazzling evening with Terri, I mean, Stacy, I mean, Victoria, I mean--wait, who was I dating again? Oh, yeah, Dawn Something-Or-Other! Ugh, one of these days, I'm going to have to start handing out name tags! 

As I walk across the lobby and head on over to the bar, I notice a familiar redheaded figure sitting rather gloomily in a booth by herself. I frown and squint my eyes, making sure that it's her, before calling out her name.   
"Hey--Lita!" She whirls around in her chair and catches sight of me, and promptly turns as red as her hair once she realizes who I am. I shrug--ever since that little double shower incident, Lita's been furiously avoiding me like the plague. As I begin to weave through the crowd to join her at her table, Lita freezes like a deer caught in headlights, and for a brief moment appears to be considering actually fleeing the place. Not a chance; I reach her table before she has the opportunity to rise out of her seat, and pull a chair out and sit down backwards on it, hugging the back to my chest.   
"Oh...um...Hi, Rob," Lita stammers out, looking embarrassed and steadfastly avoiding looking me in the eye.   
"Hey, Lita," I repeat my greeting pleasantly, trying to show her that I hold no ill feelings for what had happened over two weeks ago. "So what's a gorgeous lady like yourself doing here all alone on a night off?" Lita blushes, mumbling something incomprehensible into her glass. I strain forward to hear, and her blush deepens as I get nearer, so I quickly draw back. Lita seems to notice this, and hastens to say, "It's okay, Rob. Anyway, if you really want to know what happened--well, let's just say that Trish may be a good friend, but she's got to be the most terrible matchmaker walking this planet!" I nod wisely, even though I've been thankfully spared from Trish's attempts to play Cupid--I've been able to find my way into bad dates quite well on my own, actually, which I choose to voice out loud. Lita tilts back her neck and laughs good-naturedly at this, then falls silent and begins fiddling with her shot glass.   
"Listen, Rob," she says after a while, "if I've been acting rather weird around you, then it's because of...well, um..."   
"Actually, you haven't really been around me much during these last couple of weeks to really act all that strangely," I remark, and Lita blushes again. She clears her throat, before attempting to finish what she's started.   
"I just want you to know how sorry I am for acting the way I did when--well, you know," she mumbles in a tiny voice.   
"Hey, don't worry about that," I tell her. "It's--"   
"It's cool with you, right?" Lita cracks, already looking less embarrassed and more like her usual self. I pretend to look insulted, as I huff, "Am I really that transparent?"   
"Sugar, that was as predictable as the Rock raising one eyebrow and calling someone a jabroni," she teases, and I have to smile.   
"Come on, let's get you out of here," I say, and Lita looks surprised.   
"What do you mean?" she asks. I shrug.   
"Well, for one thing, that bartender over there's giving me the eye, and to be quite honest, it's really beginning to creep me out," I joke, and Lita laughs again.   
"Besides, you've obviously had as miserable a dating experience as I just did, and like the saying goes, the night is young, so we might as well try to salvage it," I tell her casually. Lita ducks her head, but I can detect hints of red washing up her cheeks again, and hasten to lighten the situation, as I joke, "Hey, c'mon, I know Stacy and Dawn Marie must've pumped you full of propaganda against me, but I'm not really _that_ big an airhead when it comes to dates!" Lita raises her head, and now I can see that she's blushing furiously, as she squeaks out, "It's not that, Rob, but...I guess what I'm trying to say is...Well, why not...?" 

At that minute, we're interrupted by a young bottled blonde in hot pink and black leather, as she bounces over to our table and promptly decides to let out an ear-splitting shriek, right into my face.   
"Like, ohmigod! You're, like, RVD, aren't you? You so totally are!" she squeals, chattering a mile a minute as Lita leans back irritably in her seat, annoyance clearly visible on her features. I force a polite smile on my face, resisting the urge to reach up and rub my busted eardrums, as the girl gushes, "I am such a huge fan, I am such a huge fan! I think you have the cutest a--um, I mean, hair!" As Lita darts her a sharp look at the cutest "hair" comment, the blonde digs around her hot pants, producing a set of keys and all the while happily ignoring the evil eye from Lita. Turning around, she gives a seductive smile and bats her eyelashes furiously while purring, "Listen, I'm thinking of trying out for the WWE, and I was wondering if you could come up to my hotel room and, ah, show me some moves and holds...?" By now, Lita's arched eyebrows have nearly disappeared into her hairline, and as soon as she hears hotel rooms being mentioned, she suddenly sits up straight and snaps, "Split, bitch!" The little blonde looks taken aback and a tad pissed off, but one good look at the expression on Lita's face is more than enough to convince her to get the hell away from our table. As Lita casually leans back in her seat and takes a sip of her drink, I fix my eyes on her in a questioning look. She meets my stare with steady brown eyes, demanding to know, "What?"   
"Call me crazy, but do I detect a hint of jealousy from the lovely Lita?" I ask, only half-teasing. Lita rolls her eyes, and promptly fires back, "You're crazier than that jackass from _Jackass,_ Rob!" I shrug and manage a good-natured laugh, but Lita seems to feel the need to explain herself, as she adds rather cheekily, "Why should I be concerned with your love life? All I was doing was protecting one of my colleagues from cheap, meaningless sex." Now it's my turn to roll my eyes, as I reply dryly, "Gee, well aren't you a saint," to which Lita answers with a lazy grin. 

Just then, a second person dances over to our table, this time a little skinny girl with dyed bubblegum-pink hair.   
"Aren't you, like, RVD?" she breathes in an awestruck voice. Before I can answer, Lita has already snapped crisply, "So what if he is?" We both wait warily as the pink-haired chick screams herself hoarse like one of those teenyboppers on TRL, before she produces a soft-tip red felt pen and thrusts it into my hands.   
"Can I have your autograph?" she squeals. Placing her hand suggestively on the low-cut neckline of her thin blouse, she leans closer and adds, "You can sign _anywhere!"_   
"Eh heh..." I dart a nervous glance over at Lita, who by now is sporting a dangerously twitching left eyebrow, and quickly grab the nearest napkin and scrawl my name across it before handing it back to the somewhat disappointed-looking girl. She begins to skip away...and that's when Lita discreetly inches one foot out and trips the girl, making her fall flat on her face into a passing dessert tray. I arch my eyebrows at this, but Lita just turns around innocently and remarks, "See? I'm not jealous at all!" I laugh and shake my head, but before I can say anything, Lita's already leapt up, suddenly reenergized, as she declares, "Now let's go clubbing, shall we?" My eyes widen in surprise, as I stammer, "Now?" Lita shrugs.   
"Now or never," she says. Warily keeping her eye on an approaching top-heavy brunette, she urges, "Now, before I have to kick that little slut's ass for trying to smear your reputation with a one-night stand!" I laugh again as I stand up, conceding, "All right, all right!" Lita nods enthusiastically and grabs my hand, leading me away from the table.   
"That's the spirit, now c'mon and let's get this party started!" she declares, dragging me away to whichever nightclub she's got in mind. 


	6. Slide

**Trish**

* * *

I shiver slightly in the cool Nevada air, and pull my jacket closer to my body as I slip my gloved hand into Jeff Hardy's, glad that he's taken the time to wash off all of that crazy glow-in-the-dark "2xtreme" body paint of his. This is one of the things I love about Raw in Las Vegas--after the show, the entire roster--or at least everybody who's not too broken--is set loose upon Sin City to tear it up as much as we want to. I'm not a particularly wild party girl or anything of that type, but you try hanging out with Jeff "I'm 2xtreme For Regular Sleeves, And Lather On Layers of Body Paint Onto My Arms Instead" Hardy and not get dragged into all the casinos and nightclubs and see all the shows. Not that I mind too much--Jeff _is_ a really fun person underneath all that glow-in-the-dark body paint and hair dye, and besides, what's the use of being in Vegas if you're not going to go crazy and party the night away? 

Either way, by three o' clock in the morning, both Jeff and I are way done with partying and gambling and doing crazy stuff (I'd actually won three hundred and fifty dollars, he'd won two grand and then lost it all, and then lost another five hundred on top of that, but didn't seem to care one way or another), and are now strolling leisurely back to our hotel. It's rather nice, actually, and since Vegas is full of flashy, extravagant people, very few passers-by have stopped to hound us for pictures or autographs. We're passing by one of those glitzy Vegas wedding chapels where couples get married by Elvis impersonators, and I stop and laugh, remembering the particular storyline about Hunter and Steph's drunken Vegas drive-thru wedding. Jeff stops as well and shoots me a questioning look, then catches sight of the Vegas chapel and laughs with me, realizing what I'm so amused about.   
"Wouldn't want to get hitched off there," he mutters, absently tucking a stray lock of dyed turquoise hair underneath his purple felt baseball cap. I smile and playfully punch him in the arm, kidding, "Gee, and here I was thinking all you Southern yanks would adore getting married by an Elvis Presley impersonator!" Jeff rolls his eyes at me, but I can see that he's nevertheless amused by my little joke, and it's not long before he lets out a guilty laugh.   
"Okay, I'll admit it--it _does_ sound pretty cool," he cracks, offering a lopsided grin. "Still, call me a hopeless romantic if you want to, but I'm one of those guys who wouldn't exactly mind a traditional white wedding." I smile.   
"Aw, isn't that just too adorable of you," I tease him, purposely putting an exaggerated baby-talk voice, and Jeff rolls his eyes at me again. "But seriously, I really _do_ think that's very sweet of you--" 

"Congratulations!" At that moment, the chapel doors open, and a newly hitched couple emerges, stumbling drunkenly about. My mouth nearly drops open, as I realize that this newlywed couple is no older than college age, the groom dressed in ratty ripped jeans and an old gray CBGB shirt, the bride looking like she'd stepped out of the pages of the poor man's _Playboy_ in what actually appeared to be a Britney Spears-esque Catholic schoolgirl uniform, complete with pink pom-poms in her pigtails and all. I know my jaw's on the ground as I stare after the newlyweds, who giggle and hiccup and drunkenly totter their way down the streets. Jeff himself is shocked as well, but he manages to shake off the bizarreness of the impromptu marriage and lightly squeezes my hand.   
"Talk about a Kodak moment, huh?" he whispers in my ear, and I only nod mutely. 

"Congratulations!" The chapel doors open again, and a second pair of newlyweds step out, laughing obnoxiously about everything and nothing. Since I'd already seen the first couple, I normally wouldn't have been surprised--except this time, the newlyweds are none other than _Raw's_ own Stacy Keibler and Test.   
"Oh, my God! That's--that's--" Jeff squeaks out in a strangled tone beside me. I can only nod stupidly, as I stare after the two tall blondes totter their way out of the chapel and off toward wherever drunken newlyweds celebrate their honeymoons in Vegas.   
"Well...they _have_ been going out pretty long...I suppose this was bound to happen," Jeff shrugs, trying to justify the situation.   
"I wouldn't be surprised if the marriage ends on _Jerry Springer,"_ I mutter, more to myself than to anyone else, and quickly blush when Jeff catches my words and arches one eyebrow. I lower my head, mumbling, "Sorry--Lita's on this whole WWE relationships never work rampage, and I guess I'm finally starting to pay for being her roommate and all." Jeff shrugs again, but then laughs it off.   
"So long as you don't come to me one day and start your greeting with, "Say, hon, don't you think it would be fun to go on _Ricki Lake,_ especially since I can tell you my big old secret there on national TV for the whole world to see," I'm going to pretend you never said that," he jokes, and I laugh good-naturedly. 

"Congratulations!"   
"Oh, no!" Jeff and I exclaim jokingly at the same time that the chapel doors open. However, as soon as the third set of newlyweds steps out, we quickly realize that it's no laughing matter, as we stare in dismay at this familiar couple.   
"Trish--please tell me those were _not_ Ivory and Hurricane who just got hitched!" Jeff squeaks out beside me.   
"Let's just pray that the bottle of champagne we shared back at that casino is getting to us, and we're just too drunk to realize we're hallucinating," I moan, placing my head into the palms of my hands. Jeff swallows hard.   
"That must be it," he mumbles. "And even if it's not...Well, annulments _are_ pretty easy to get nowadays, especially if your wedding chapel was in Vegas." I nod enthusiastically, to the point where my hair ends up flying around my face and I look as though I'm headbanging.   
"Of course. Of course," I hear myself repeating, like some broken old record player. 

"Congratulations!" Before the couple can even step out of the chapel, Jeff has grabbed my hand and pulled me away with him as we both take off like mad to get the hell away from this place. 

* * *

**Lita**

* * *

I let out a groan as I wake up and roll over in my bed, gingerly stretching my creaky-feeling limbs and swearing under my breath about my killer hangover as I let my arm flop over the bedsheets. I instantly sit up, wide awake and hangover forgotten, rubbing my eyes as I whip around to make sure my fingertips had really touched a pair of wrestling boots messily tossed onto the comforter. They had. I squint and push my tangled hair out of my face, wondering how the hell they'd gotten there--I am far from actively returning to the ring, and unless Trish's feet have suddenly grown several sizes, then I seriously doubt she wears such clunky wrestling attire. Absently, I tilt my neck to blow my hair out of my eyes, as I mutter to myself, "Ugh, these better not be a childish break-up present from Matt!" when I'm hit with the so very brilliant idea to check the sides of the boots to see if the wrestler's name is written on them. Eagerly, I reach over the bed and turn the black boots around, and I think you can imagine my shock when I catch sight of the three letters painted in loud green on the sides of the boots. R. V. D. I don't know whether to scream or to faint--or do both; however, before I can decide on which reaction I should go with, I force myself to try and remember what had happened the previous night. My main concern is whether something...ah, let's just say, intimate had happened between us--why else would his clothing be strewn all over the bed beside me? (Okay, so technically it's just a few odds and ends from his wrestling gear, and it's not like there's a pair of his discarded jeans thrown across the bed beside me--but still!) I feel like breaking down into tears when I realize I can't remember a thing that had happened between us, but somehow, in my frantic and frenzied state, the sound of the showers running breaks through my wall of despair, making me realize that RVD's risen before me and has gone to take his morning shower. I throw off the bedsheets, which I'd pulled up tightly to me while fretting over the wrestling boots, and feel an immense rush of relief when I realize that I'm fully clothed in a white babydoll tee and black jeans. As I stumble gingerly across the room and take a swig from the first water bottle I see, I lean back against the wall and try to recall what had happened, all the while attempting to block out the sound of the showers running behind the closed bathroom door. 

Through the haze in my mind, I manage to piece together bits and pieces of whatever flashbacks I can recall of the infamous night before. Let's see...I remember Trish setting me up on the dullest, most painfully boring date of my life with an orthodontist (great, the part that I'd love to forget, I can remember with utmost detail!). I'm pretty sure I had ditched him while he was still babbling about that one time in the third grade when somebody stole his pencil, a story he'd told and retold at least three times before, and making a break for my hotel as soon as I'd managed to scrounge up enough money to hail a cab. How RVD figured into my dull as dishwater evening I'm not sure I can figure out for the life of me...Oh, no wait! Now I remember--he'd spotted me trying to forget my painfully boring date downstairs at the hotel bar, and struck up a conversation about bad dates. And then...I scrunch up my face, trying to remember. Oh, yeah--And then I'd dispatched of two ring rats and and taken him up on his offer to go out as each other's dates for the evening to make up for both our bad dates. The rest of the evening is a blur; all I can remember is that we were basically like two kids let loose in a candy shop when we hit the streets of Vegas. 

At that moment, RVD steps out of the showers, this time thankfully wearing _something_...although that skimpy little towel doesn't exactly leave too much to the imagination. But hey, if he doesn't seem too embarrassed by it, then I'm not going to complain.   
"Hey, the bathroom's free if you want to go take your shower now," he offers, looking surprisingly at ease--unless, of course, he actually _does_ remember what had happened over the course of the night.   
"Thanks," I murmur uncertainly, as I try to construct the most tactful way of wording my question. Finally, I just give up and blurt out, "Listen, Rob, nothing happened between us last night, did it?" He shrugs, and runs a hand through his still wet hair.   
"Honestly, I can't remember," he admits, offering a guilty smile. I shrug, and force a grin on my own face, even though I'm beginning to feel worried inside.   
"Well, don't sweat it--I mean, I'm sure nothing really happened...you know, between the two of us," I mumble dejectedly. I'm about to step into bathroom to take my own shower, when I notice a crumpled piece of paper lying on the dresser. Curious, I inch closer and pick it up, reading across it. By the time I'm done, my eyebrows have nearly flown right off my forehead.   
"What?!" I screech, in a voice that could have easily rivaled Stephanie's infamous shrill shriek. RVD, meanwhile, grimaces as he rubs his ears, before speaking up, "What's wrong, Lita? Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work it out without your screaming around like that." In response, I numbly turn around and hand the paper over to him, waiting for his response as he reads over it and finds out just exactly what we'd been up to the previous night. RVD finishes reading, and the paper promptly flutters out of his hands. I watch the marriage certificate--_our_ marriage certificate--land on the carpet, and this time, RVD's the one who's doing the fainting. 


	7. White Wedding

**Lita**

* * *

I tap my foot nervously against the floor as RVD and I wait in the courthouse to try and get our marriage annulled. What the hell could be taking the couple ahead of us so long, anyway? I sigh irritably and blow a strand of hair away from my eye; we totally should have camped outside and been the first ones to get in, but RVD's very determined to get his beauty sleep, especially since I don't snore (Lance Storm) _or_ try to remake "Welcome to the Jungle" in my sleep (Chris Jericho--who else?). And of course, thanks to Trish and Jeff's big mouths, everybody on the _Raw_ roster and their mother knows about our little Vegas wedding, and as if that's not bad enough, Shawn Michaels and Triple H actually had the nerve to cancel my and RVD's separate room reservations and book us into the hotel's Honeymoon Suite together! If I hadn't been so damn distraught over being Mrs. Rob Van Dam, I would have surely kicked both their crippled-and-giant-nosed asses all the way to Timbuktu. As it stands, Ivory and Hurricane have already gotten their marriage instantly annulled, while Stacy and Test actually tried to make theirs work, before marching down the courthouse one week later to get their own marriage annulled as well. That leaves Rob and myself as the only Vegas-hitched couple still wedded to each other, but as soon as that slow-ass couple is done, RVD and I are _so_ going to be history as a married couple. 

At that moment, the office doors open and a couple who somehow manage to look even more redneck than Jamie Noble, Nidia, and Stone Cold put together finally stumble their way out, looking every bit as drunk as they probably were when they got married in the first place. The court clerk looks at her clipboard, and calls out, "Mr. and Mrs. Van Dam?" I cringe at my new moniker, but quickly stand up and drag RVD with me as we're ushered into the office.   
"Remember to mention that you were very drunk," I hiss into his ear as we sit down. RVD looks annoyed, as he whispers back, "What about you? You were as wasted as I was, if not more!" I scowl, and retort so very cleverly, "Just because! Tell her you were drunk!" RVD huffs, looking insulted.   
"I am _not_ going to announce the degree of my drunkenness just so you can ensure our marriage will be annulled--" he starts to babble, when I discreetly stomp down on his foot with the heel of my left boot.   
"Ow!" If the judge is surprised to see the husband suddenly start hopping up and down doing a cross between the chicken dance and a kangaroo imitation, then she's certainly hiding it very well. Either way, I--or my black leather boots--have convinced RVD to proclaim as I told him, because as soon as the judge begins to speak, "Now, Mr. and Mrs. Van Dam--" good old Robby boy instantly straightens up like some cadet at attention and fires off, "I was drunk, Your Majesty--I mean, Your Eminence--I mean, Your Awesomeness--I mean...I've got to stop hanging around Christian!" The judge rolls her eyes, and I quickly step in and clamp my hand over Mr. Smooth's mouth before he can blabber anything else.   
"I'm really sorry, Your _Honor,"_ I hasten to say apologetically, then get an idea as I add, "I'm sure you can understand why our marriage has to be annulled immediately!" I fix a pointed look at RVD, who simply nods enthusiastically.   
"I understand the two of you were inebriated when you were accidentally married at a Las Vegas wedding chapel," the judge begins to say, and I nod.   
"That's right, Your Honor; you see--" I start to explain, when a loud ringing noise interrupts me. The judge frowns and crosses her arms, clearly annoyed, as both RVD and I desperately search around our pockets to see whose cell phone is ringing. Finally, we discover that it's--well, my hubby's, I guess that's what he is now--as RVD pulls out his cell phone and flips it open, speaking cheerfully into the mouthpiece, "Hey, what's up, dude...Oh, it's you, Vince! Sorry." I dart a helpless look from RVD to the judge, mouth the word, _Sorry,_ and grudgingly settle back in my chair to watch and wait as he finishes his conversation with Vince McMahon.   
"Oh, I don't know about that, Vince...Well, I guess it might draw some cheap ratings...Are you sure Lita will be pleased about this?" My ears perk up at the mention of my name, and I scramble toward RVD in an effort to listen in on his conversation. After a couple of, "Uh huhs," and, "Yeahs," he finishes his conversation and flips the cell phone closed. I lean back, still clueless since I had heard only bits and pieces of whatever it is that he just finished discussing with Vince, and arch my eyebrows as if to say, "Well?" RVD shrugs.   
"It looks like we can't get our marriage annulled today--Vince is expecting us to catch the fastest flight to Stamford to discuss a new storyline idea with him," is all he can say.   
"No!" I almost shriek, biting down on my lip just before the sentence, "I want to get this damn marriage annulled now!" childishly escapes my mouth. RVD looks taken aback.   
"Jeez, Lita, chill out," he advises wisely. "We can get this silly wedding thing annulled any day, but right now, Vince _really_ needs to see us, quote-unquote." I sigh heavily, and give in.   
"All right," I concede, throwing my hands up in defeat as I add (while fervently trying to ignore the Kane-Triple H-necrophilia angle), "I'm sure that since it's Vince, the storyline idea can only help the company." 

* * *

My mouth drops open in shock, and had I not been sitting down, I would have surely fallen very unceremoniously on my ass as Vince relays his "brilliant storyline idea" to RVD and I.   
"Vince--you can't be serious!" I gasp. "You actually want Rob and I to remain married so we can hold some sort of silly wedding ceremony on _Raw_ and make the angle more legit?!" Beside me, RVD winces at the high octave my voice has hit; Vince, however, doesn't look fazed at all by my shrill whine--he must be used to it after living with Stephanie for twenty-six years.   
"Well, the Internet smarts have already gotten wind of your Vegas wedding to RVD; the headlines are splashed across every WWE news and rumors webpage," he points out, as though that makes things even remotely different.   
"Vince, I still don't understand how our marriage being legit is going to help ratings," I hear RVD speak up reasonably. Good, because if I had spoke right then, it would have seriously jeopardized my whole career. I tune out the rest of the conversation between the two men, hearing only snatches from it, including something along the lines of how today's wrestling fan is smart enough to want logic in his storylines and more incessant blabber about the whole Sara/Taker crap. I probably would have continued sitting there like a zombie, had Vince's next words not decisively snapped me out of my trance.   
"Now, since we really need something to shock the audience, the bookers are already working on a way to introduce a pregnancy angle," our benevolent boss drops the bomb, and this time, the chair is unable to stop me, as I snap up in astonishment and my sudden movement causes my chair to tilt backwards and dump me unceremoniously onto the back of my head.   
"Um...Lita? Are you all right?" RVD's concerned voice breaks into my dazed mind while I'm busy thinking up names for all the pretty stars dancing over my head.   
"Am I all right?!" I scoff, fighting the impulse to break down and bawl my eyes out. "I'm going to be pregnant! Oh, my God, I'm getting pregnant!" RVD rolls his eyes as he reaches down and helps me up, still clueless as to why that's so bad.   
"So what?" he wants to know, giving a careless shrug. "So you'll have to wear a fake gut for the next couple of months, big deal."   
_"So what?!" _I whirl around and glare at him as though he's crazy. "So this is Vince McMahon's WWE we're talking about! Knowing _our_ track record, I'm probably going to pick up where Mae Young left off and give birth to a damn foot or something! Now I know why Ivory and Hurricane and Stacy and Test had their marriage instantly annulled!"   
"Hey!" Vince speaks up sharply, and RVD and I both look at each other as though to groan, "Oh, shit! I forgot he was in the room as well!"   
"Now listen, nobody would like to forget that angle ever happened more than me," Vince begins to lecture. I snort and mutter none too discreetly under my breath, "Try the fans!" Vince gives me a sharp look, and I bite down on my lower lip before I can further jeopardize my position within the company.   
"However," our beloved boss continues, "desperate times call for desperate measures, and what we need right now is an engaging storyline for today's audience, and unfortunately, WWE fans don't want pure wrestling, they want angles as well." I tune out the rest of Vince's long speech about smarts and angles, and instead opt to sulk over my long and gloomy career ahead of me as the pregant-but-not-really-pregant legitimate wife of Mr. Monday Night, Rob Van Dam. Oh, God! Somebody shoot me! 

* * *

**RVD**

* * *

I walk along the hallways of the backstage locker room area, frowning and trying to figure out just exactly what Kurt Cobain is shouting into my Walkman's headphones. Something about mulattos and libidos, I think...Dude, how the hell can Lance Storm listen to this stuff without getting both confused and a massive migraine? No wonder he looks so grumpy and serious all the time; I'd be depressed too if I were constantly listening to the music of a guy who kept on whining about how he was going to shoot himself, and then went ahead and did it three years later! But then again, I can't exactly return to my mindlessly-happy-and-partying KISS CD's--tonight's the famous live wedding ceremony between "Mr. and Mrs. Van Dam," and Lita's so depressed at the prospect of being married and pregnant that she's making damn sure nobody else--especially not me--can be happy. I frown; okay, so I know I tend to space out occasionally, but would I make _that_ bad of a husband and father? Either way, Lita shouldn't worry so much over this silly wedding and pregnancy angle--first, it will give her unsightly gray hair, and second, I've already found a way to get out of this whole thing. 

I arrive at the women's locker room, and am about to knock on the door and ask for only Lita when I hear my name being mentioned. Now, I'm not the eavesdropping type...but what can I say, Mr. Monday Night's only human. Besides, Integrity ain't one of my three I's.   
"Don't be stupid, Trish, you know I can't date him!" I hear Lita scoff, to which Trish replies in that maddening singsong tone of hers, "Why not? You're legitimately married to him anyway, not to mention about to carry his nonexistent child, might as well get something out of it." I can almost see Lita rolling her eyes, as she huffs, "C'mon, how can I date the guy when he's prettier than me?! I mean, I'm going to look real stupid walking into a room on his arm, and he's just going to have prettier hair than me, and be able to get away with wearing tighter jeans than I can, and have a cuter ass than I do! You don't date guys who're prettier than you, you just don't!" Trish throws back her head and laughs, and now I'm seriously interested in their conversation, having figured out they're probably talking about me--unless Lita's secretly gotten our marriage annulled and convinced Vince to use somebody else as a storyline replacement for me--but unfortunately, I find out then that the divas don't usually keep their locker room doors locked, as I slip on the linoleum tiles and accidentally stumble inside. Remembering the little hotel shower room incident with Lita a few weeks earlier, I instantly cover my eyes with my hands and call out, "Sorry!"   
"Rob?! What...what are you doing here?" Lita squeaks out nervously, and I can hear the guilt in her voice.   
"Well, I'd answer that, but since I can't see a thing, I really don't know which direction I should be facing," I mumble.   
"It's okay, Robby-boy, you can lower your hand, we're both dressed," Trish speaks up pleasantly, and I lower my hands to see both divas seated on metal folding chairs in front of a TV, which is playing a tape of an earlier _Raw._ Specifically, the episode where Shawn Michaels and I battled for his heavyweight title. At that moment, the tape goes to the part where HBK abruptly slaps me, and I waste no time in slapping him right back, and Trish lets out a low whistle.   
"Go Rob," she jokes. "Where did you learn to bitch slap like that?"   
"Gee, I think I picked up a few tricks a while back when someone used me for practice," I remark dryly, and Lita blushes, obviously getting the hint about the shower incident. As she does so, I notice that she's already dressed in her wedding gown, and when I turn around to get a better look, my breath catches in my throat. She looks...gorgeous. I have never seen her before dressed like this; she'd always been crammed into ripped fishnet tank tops and glow-in-the-dark cargo pants as part of her Xtreme Girl image, but tonight, I realize for the first time just how beautiful a woman Lita really is. Her makeup is done perfectly, her hair cascades around her shoulders like waves of flaming silk behind her gossamer veil, and her white wedding dress, fashionably designed to be short in the front but long in the back, looks just stunning on her.   
"Rob, wipe that drool off your chin, will ya?" Trish's sarcastic joke snaps me out of my daze, and I realize that I'd been staring. Lita herself is blushing rather self-consciously, as Trish rolls her eyes at both of us and remarks, "Jeez, you two, you're both acting like nervous fifteen-year-olds out on their first date."   
"Trish, grow up," Lita mutters grumpily, as she hurriedly gets out of her seat and smoothes over her pearly skirts. Trish laughs good-naturedly, then darts a lazy look in my direction and smirks as she cracks with a fake British accent, "Aw, well don't you look just dashing tonight, good sir!" I realize then how silly I must look in the all-white tuxedo and top hat that Vince has forced me to wear, and try to joke it off by mumbling, "Yeah, well, when Vince said he wanted a traditional white wedding, he really meant it."   
"Don't listen to her, Rob, I think you look just fine," Lita defends me as she gingerly tests out her three-inch crystal heels. I turn around to stare at her.   
"You do?" I ask, and Lita bursts out laughing as she jokes, "Not really--you look like the Penguin!" I huff and pretend to be insulted as I say dryly, "Gee, thanks, that's really going to boost my self-esteem!"   
"Hey, hey, at least you don't have to wear a jumbo gut for God knows how long before giving birth to a damn hand!" Lita mumbles. I arch an eyebrow at this.   
"You don't know if you're really giving birth to a hand like Mae Young did," I reassure her. "Besides...if things go as I've planned them, you and I will get our annullment soon enough, and this whole white wedding ceremony won't even proceed." Lita snaps up.   
"What do you mean?" she asks. I hesitate; I'm kind of regretting that I won't get to see her in her wedding dress for much longer, but then again, I can't just let her walk around all miserable about her impending pregnancy angle (and thus forcing me to give up my KISS for some Nirvana to make me equally depressed as well!)   
"Let's just say that Philadelphia is ECW turf," I reply mysteriously. "You'll see what happens later tonight." 


	8. November Rain

*Okay, just as a beforehand warning, I'm sorry if the sequence of the wedding ceremony is somewhat screwed up--that's what I get for never having attended a wedding before and not paying close attention to the ones they stage on TV sitcoms! The entire sequence of the ceremony is actually based on a clip I saw of the "November Rain" music video, so it's probably kind of (or really! x_x) goofy! Now, on with the story! ^_^ 

* * *

  
  


**_You Are Cordially Invited..._**   
**_To share in the happiness of the joyous union of Lita and Rob Van Dam in Holy Matrimony_**   
**_on Monday Night Raw_**

* * *

The audience cooed over the graphic that swept up the TitanTron, inviting them to witness the storybook white wedding ceremony between two of _Raw's_ most popular Superstars. For the first time in what felt like ages, Vince McMahon demonstrated the true business genius that he was by actually pushing the wedding ceremony between two of his biggest crowd-pleasers, letting the Dawn Marie-Pathetic Old Fart (um, the authoress means, Al Wilson) crapfest sort itself out on _Smackdown!_ A silky, snowy carpet had been rolled over the ring, partly to enhance the picture perfect white wedding effect, partly to cover up the blood that had been shed from the previous match, and white roses and lilies were entwined on the ropes. A hapless and reluctant WWE secretary had been shoved into a priest's outfit and now stood behind the ivory-and-gold-colored altar, tugging nervously at his collar with one hand while balancing a heavy book with the other, afraid to move lest he trample or knock over the delicate flowers and crystals all around him. A local orchestra was set up around three sides of the ring, and a clueless Jeff Hardy had been manipulated into posing as RVD's best man, while Trish Stratus was the natural choice to play the role of Lita's maid of honor. Due to a lack of children present at the show, Terri and Spike Dudley had been wheedled into being the flower girl and the ring bearer, since they were the shortest active members on the roster. Gregory Helms was seated ringside to cover the wedding for his newspaper, _The Daily Globe,_ and rounding out the entourage was Lilian Garcia as the wedding singer. 

All that were missing from the festivities were the bride and groom themselves; Eric Bischoff had already gotten a call via cell phone from backstage that Lita and Trish were all ready to go behind the curtain. However, the ever dependable RVD was flat out nowhere in sight, and yelling at Helms and Hardy hadn't exactly helped, aside from making Bischoff feel a whole lot better. As the crowd waited expectantly and the dismaying call from backstage came from Rico informing the entourage that RVD was still MIA, Bischoff was forced to get on the microphone and babble away for over five minutes about how delighted the entire _Raw_ roster was at the prospect of seeing two of its own joined in holy matrimony, and other such incessant clichés. After the five minutes had passed and the groom was still nowhere to be found, the bristling Bischoff resorted to instructing a bewildered Lilian to sing something--a love song, a power ballad, a lullaby, _anything_--in an effort to further stall for time while he personally stormed backstage and searched out Van Dam. The pretty blonde ring announcer looked somewhat uneasy, but one sweeping glance at the already antsy crowds convinced her to just go ahead and sing. As Lilian stood in front of the altar and reluctantly belted out the lyrics to Faith Hill's "Breathe," Bischoff proceeded to exit the ring and head up the ramp, stopping halfway toward the TitanTron only when an urgent call from Rico informed him that the missing groom had been found trying to sneak back inside from the parking lot. Bischoff would have stormed backstage to yell at RVD, but by then Lilian was approaching the song's finish, and the _Raw_ GM reluctantly decided to let this minor slip-up slide by and just commence the wedding. Making a U-turn on the steel ramp, Bischoff reentered the ring just as Lilian held out the last note of "Breathe" and took the microphone from her.   
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, _Raw_ will commence its White Wedding by introducing first the groom, Mr. Rob Van Dam," he gritted out, trying to filter out his anger at the delays. He turned around and motioned for the orchestra to play some wedding music for RVD's entrance, which the hired musicians obligingly complied with. 

Several minutes passed as both the entourage in the ring and the audience expectantly glanced toward the TitanTron, awaiting the groom's arrival. Finally, just as Bischoff looked like he was about to have a nervous breakdown (but not before wringing RVD's neck first!) the groom was shoved out from behind the curtains (literally: an arm--presumed to be Rico's--could be seen pushing the somewhat dazed-looking Van Dam outside) and quickly sprinted down the ramp, sliding gracefully into the ring and nearly succeeding in bowling over his best man. As RVD stood up and gingerly dusted himself off, rearranging the white rose on his lapel while apologizing to Jeff, Terri signaled that the female half of the ceremony was about to arrive as she began walking toward the ring and throwing white flower petals into the air and onto the ramp. The orchestra began to play the wedding march, and the audience held its collective breath in anticipation for the arrival of the bride with her maid of honor. 

As the wedding march gently continued to play, Lita came into view carrying a white orchid bouquet, looking stunning in her pearly skirts and gauzy veil. Trish was right behind her, dressed in a simpler, sleeveless white silk version of Lita's dress, and together, the two began their graceful walk down the ramp and toward the altar. As the females in the audience cooed dreamily and shushed down their male neighbors from making any appreciative wolf whistles (Lita's wedding gown _was_ rather short in the front, and Trish's own dress sported a low-cut, heart-shaped neckline), the two divas finally reached the ring and entered through the ropes, dutifully held down by Jeff and Spike. Trish drew back as Lita glided over to the altar beside RVD; the already-legitimately-married-but-about-to-wed-for-storyline-purposes-anyway couple exchanged brief smiles as their "priest" got ready to read his lines.   
"Dearly beloved, we're gathered here today to witness the union of this man and this woman in holy matrimony," the WWE secretary posing as the priest began, stumbling nervously over some of the words. Lita shot RVD a meaningful look, as if to say, "So, what's your brilliant plan, and when are you going to put it into action?" RVD shrugged in response, signaling for her to be patient and wait. In the meantime, while Lita and her hubby had been trying to communicate using their eyes and discreet facial expressions, the wedding had already progressed toward the stage where the vows would be exchanged. Jeff, who'd actually washed all the wild purple-green-and-blue dye out of his now blonde hair and who'd also never even seen a wedding in the movies, let alone attended an actual one, assumed that as the best man he was supposed to be the one carrying the wedding rings, and began patting all over his extravagant white tuxedo in search of the missing rings. While Jeff freaked out and ignored little Spike, who was bearing a snowy velvet cushion holding two gold rings, the shorter blonde male sidestepped RVD's frantic best man and presented the rings to the bride and groom. Finally, after Jeff's desperate wails and groans were beginning to get way too distracting, Gregory got up from his seat on a metal folding chair and leaned into the ring to holler, "Dude, they've already _got_ the rings!" 

After Jeff had calmed down, the wedding resumed, and Lita and RVD dutifully exchanged vows under their "priest's" watchful eye. Finally, the ceremony arrived at the melodramatic part where the priest asked for anybody who believed the wedding should not continue to declare their hindrances or live with their guilt, and the crowds held their breaths and waited for the sure-to-come violent interruption, knowing that no wedding ceremony had ever successfully taken place in the WWE's Attitude Era.   
"...speak now, or forever hold your peace," the priest was babbling, before momentarily closing his book shut and waiting expectantly. RVD held his breath, hoping his buddies had remembered that this was their cue. 

The groom let out the breath he'd been holding when he saw that indeed they had. From amidst the ringside crowds, a group of about six or seven masked wrestlers wove their way through the seats and jumped over the black security barriers, knocking out the guards and storming the ring. The WWE secretary dressed up as the priest promptly split, gathering up his holy robes and scramming the hell out of the ring, tripping over his long garbs but refusing to slow down. Terri and Lilian both gave startled little shrieks and ducked, expecting to be hit by the rowdy strangers who'd interrupted what was supposed to be the first-ever successful Attitude Era WWE wedding ceremony, while Trish only stared on in confusion, for the moment standing cautiously still but ready to kick some serious ass if one of these masked ruffians so much as dared to touch one hair on her head. Spike and Gregory mimicked Trish's reaction, while Jeff simply blinked dazedly before shrugging and wandering over to the crystal coffee table where the giant white wedding cake had been set up, already knowing all too well how crazy life could get in the WWE and assuming this was some last-minute angle the bookers had failed to tell him. Lita watched the party crashers storm the ring and grabbed the nearest object her hands found, preparing to deck one of the new wrestlers when his mask suddenly slipped, revealing his face for a flash before he hastily slipped it back on. That momentary glimpse was enough for Lita, though, as she stopped with the priest's book raised halfway over her head and frowned in vague recognition. Wait a minute...she knew these guys! Suddenly, Lita felt as though a lightbulb went off in her head as she realized exactly what RVD had meant when he'd declared that Philly was ECW turf, as she turned around to find her groom.   
"Rob--" she started to say, but was cut off when RVD grabbed her hand and pulled her aside. Amidst all the confusion in the ring, from Terri and Lilian cowering in a corner, to a furious Trish using one of her crystal stilettos to beat the hell out of an unfortunate masked wrestler whose hands had accidentally groped her breasts when he'd held them out to stop a fall, to Gregory fighting with Jeff over the wedding cake, nobody noticed when Lita and RVD discreetly slid out of the ring and leapt down the ramp to sneak backstage and out the parking lot. 

* * *

It had begun raining lightly by the time RVD and Lita escaped out of the arena, and since neither of them was prepared with a handy umbrella, RVD quickly took off his white coat and held it over their heads. Lita let out an exhilarated laugh and danced out from underneath RVD's coat, holding out her tongue to catch some of the raindrops as they fell. She felt giddy and excited from the matrimonial events, like a combination of a six-year-old on Christmas morning and a hyperactive speed demon on a sugar high. Standing a few feet away, RVD darted a wary glance at the laughing and dancing redhead, before venturing, "Um...Lita? Are you okay?" while wondering whether the party crashing had somehow traumatized her into hysteria. Lita paused in mid-dance and tilted back her head to let out another carefree laugh, before assuring him playfully, "I'm perfectly fine, Rob! In fact, I was wondering--you didn't by any chance have something to do with our old ECW colleagues crashing the wedding ceremony, now did you?" RVD blushed, shrugging as he admitted, "Guilty as charged. Sabu and the guys owed me a favor from way back, and I decided now was as good time as any for a repayment." Lita's smile abruptly disappeared as a thought came to her, and she asked in concern, "Suppose Eric Bischoff calls in the cops and has them thrown in jail...Then what?" RVD grinned.   
"Don't worry; they're probably a mile away from here by now--I told them to stay only long enough for us to slip out," he revealed, and Lita gave a relieved smile.   
"That's good." She nodded thoughtfully.   
"So," RVD was saying, "feel like getting an annulment right now? I seriously doubt Vince and Bischoff are going to go through with this whole marriage-and-pregnancy angle after that disastrous wedding ceremony!" Lita shrugged. For some reason, she no longer felt as desperate to get their marriage annulled as she initially did upon immediately finding out they were hitched.   
"I guess so," she finally murmured, tucking a wet lock of red hair behind her ear.   
"Just to let you know," RVD was saying, and Lita squinted and wondered whether that was a blush slowly staining his cheeks, "it was pretty fun being married to you." Lita grinned.   
"Same here," she replied sincerely, and then on an impulse leaned over and kissed him on the lips. Now she could definitely tell that RVD was blushing, as he stammered with a rather goofy-looking grin, "What...what was that for?"   
"We never got to the 'Now you may kiss the bride' part," Lita reminded him cheerfully, turning slightly pink herself. She prepared to walk off and hail a cab, when RVD impulsively reached over and, right then and there in the november rain (*sorry, couldn't help but insert that ^_^*), drew her into a deeper kiss. Lita was surprised at first, faltering as she remembered what she'd fretted over with Trish over dating a pretty guy and her solemn post-Matt Hardy oath to never attempt another relationship with a WWE Superstar again. Then, recalling memories of all the time she'd already spent with RVD, from their days in ECW, to the shower incidents, to the night when he'd offered to take her out to make up for her painfully boring date that Trish had gotten her into and their subsequent marriage in Las Vegas, and finally to their white wedding that almost was just moments ago, Lita thought to herself, _Ah, what the hell, _and kissed him back. 


End file.
